She could no longer contain the gypsy in her soul. The gypsy escaped one night, and covered her life in glitter. Ever after, she belched at will, and in public. She wore cowboy boots, flapper hats and anything with fringe. It was not uncommon to see her squatting in the side yard, freeing her bladder among the hollyhocks and clover. “Ya’ll” and “wheeeee!” and “fuck” became her favorite words, and she worked them into even the most banal of conversations, of which she had very few, no longer being someone who entertained banal conversations. She said no a lot more, […]

On location on the Cotswolds of England. Take a little Muse Juice Tour with me of this very special church and it’s guardian trees. I’ll tell you how the English word “door” got its name and the magical heritage begins the term DUIRWAIGH.

 What to do with all the overwhelm and agony? Fill it with song, of course. After singing for the FIRST TIME EVER online last week to honor the passing of RBG, I’ve decided that the only way to continue the resistance is to sing. No matter what. I’ve been doing it every day since she passed and it’s kept my nostrils above water. If you’re struggling, I urge you to tune in, turn UP and sing along.   I’m considering a new show: SUNDAY IS FOR SINNERS…a little song, a little sermon and a whole lotta shenanigans each Sunday. If […]

There is no shame here.The rubble in your lifeis an earthquake of soulshaking you awakecrumbling all that’s inessentialto your most authentic self. And you?You are too bigfor words like shamefor words like blame. You?You are wild volcanic soulmelting everythingthat does not belong. Burn, woman, burn. Move through the worldin ever-widening steps.Own your transformationin the arc of your shouldersin the expanse of your heart.Dance like your hipsmove mountainscasting off everythingthat does not belong. There is no shame here. Your ancestors knewthat nature is beautifuland terrifyingthat rainbowsare courted by stormsthat day sharesthe sky with nightthat decay caressesbeauty’s cheek. That rubble? That trouble?It […]

Hush now.The wounds run deep,but the beesare full of knowing.They know the hiveof your heart,each crooked curled chambereach hopeful hidden curve,each darkened holding cell.They have comewith wingsand songand pollen.They have come toharvest each mistakeeach broken vesselto touch the jagged edgesof betrayaland lost chances,to collect your failuresone by one,making honeyfrom the bittermaking music in the voidmaking wingswhere there were wounds. Hush now. Sleep well.The night is alivewith forgivenessand your heartis a hivemade for honeymade for love.~ Angi Sullins